by Joshua Cook
Pushing the door open, the room seemed colder than normal to her. She’d not been in the room for over a week or so; there hadn’t been much need, truthfully, with not having to run off and close Bridges. So she was somewhat thrown by its new appearance.
The chairs were the first thing. Before, the room had been somewhat haphazard, the chairs thrown about in chaos, most dusty and unused. Marcus, however, had been apparently busy. Now, all of them, several hundred chairs by her guess, were organized smallest to largest, all facing the center of the room and the barrier wall with its empty depressions. The room had always been rather dimly lit, but now it was even more so, one candle in the middle and one in each corner. And finally, there was now a chair in the middle of the room.
There had always been a place for one there. Her mother had once shown her a painting of a meeting in this very room when the Bridgefinders had been many and strong. The middle position was taken by the leader of the Bridgefinders. For a moment she wondered where that picture was now. Buried in some storeroom, she figured; out of sight and out of mind.
Marcus, apparently, had seen that picture before as well, as he was now sitting in that chair, facing away from the door once more. It was his right to do so of course; he was the leader. Of course, he’d only been the leader because she’d had no interest in what to her seemed a ceremonial position. When there were only a handful of people left, and they all did the same job who cared who was the ‘leader’? Marcus had been all excited about it, however, and so, she’d let him have it.
“Hello Jasmine.” Marcus’s voice echoed in the quiet chamber. “I figured you’d be here at some point.” He didn’t get up or face her, nor even shift in his seat from what she could see. “You’re here to discuss yesterday, I assume? When that betrayer of your ex-boyfriend destroyed what was left of us.”
Jasmine sighed. She’d known that it was going to be a fun conversation, but this was already bad and she hadn’t even said anything yet.
“Marcus, Cendan didn’t do anything—”
Before she could speak, Marcus’s fist slammed down on the chair’s arm.
“He did! If he hadn’t come here, Sal would be alive, the map would still be working, and you wouldn’t be mixed up in his dangerous ideas about magic!” Marcus paused for a second, and pulled a large sphere from somewhere that Jasmine couldn’t see. “Jasmine, he’s dangerous. At first… at first I was blinded by the idea of a Maker. A real Maker. Here. Finally. Fix EVA, discover all these things that we didn’t understand about this place. And most importantly, turn the tide on the Slyph and her creatures.”
Silence ruled for a few seconds as he appeared to gather his thoughts.
“I wanted to like him. Cendan Key. Even his name is stupid.” Holding the sphere up, Marcus appeared to look at it. “But after Sal died, and EVA was online for the first time in a thousand years, I came here to think. Think and explore. I realized, Jasmine, that Cendan is nothing but poison.”
“I am the leader of the Bridgefinders, Jasmine. Me. Not you, not Cendan, me. You always thought it was a joke, I know. A position of a figurehead. But it’s not. And it never was.” Marcus held the sphere in his hand up in the dim light. “I’d imagine you’re curious as to what this is. This is my birthright. The legacy of all the leaders of the past.”
Suddenly, Marcus stood and faced Jasmine. She was taken aback by his appearance. A severe looking man, he seemed more gaunt than normal, and in the faint light somewhat maniacal. He continued his speech.
“After Cendan opened the Maker wing, the only good thing he ever did here, I went in and explored. On my own. And I found this. This, Jasmine, is power. This allows me to control almost everything in this place.”
“It took me a while to figure it out. The power this gives me dwarfs anything Cendan Key can do. I don’t need to sleep, I don’t need to eat. THIS!” Marcus raised up the stone in his hand. “THIS sustains me. With this I can work miracles. And its power is mine. Just mine.”
Jasmine watched as Marcus started the stone orb, the look of naked ambition obvious on his face. Marcus, eyes narrowed raised his head to watch her, almost studying her.
“With this I have cut-off that pretend Bridgefinder from EVA. Not totally perhaps, not yet, but she can’t help him anymore. With this I’ve banished him from ever coming back in. This Keystone, this is my power.” Marcus’s face took on an even darker cast as he looked at her. “With this, I even know that you and Cendan weren’t alone in the map room yesterday. Who was she, Jasmine? Why did you betray me?” Marcus voice was a harsh whisper. “Once, I would have given you the world. But here you are now… tainted.”
He took a step towards her, holding the Keystone out to her.
“Tainted by that pretender, Cendan. He doesn’t care about us. He doesn’t care about the struggle. He isn’t one of us.”
Taking another step, Marcus came into closer focus in the dim light. His eyes were bloodshot. When had he slept last, she wondered? He continued to speak.
“He came here, he killed Sal, and he tainted you with his talk of magic. He betrayed my confidence when I made him a Bridgefinder.”
“Now, Jasmine, you’re going to tell me who that person was with you. You’re going to tell me what you had planned. You’re going to tell me everything.”
Marcus held the Keystone higher as Jasmine felt something pull at her very soul; hard, painful and fast. Before she could get a word out, the world spun around her as she half heard Marcus say,
“I didn’t say you would be conscious.”
Chapter 11
“Rivenwood? Shrouded?” Cendan asked a bit confused by the terms. The sight before his eyes, however, was one he never would have imagined when he agreed to come here. Rows of huge trees, different types and species, laid before him. The air was cool, but pleasant. A far cry from the oppressive cold and dark of the clearing where they had been questioned by Greengate. Walking around, sometimes in conversation and sometimes in front of a tree touching it, were the oddest assortment of people.
Wild forms of dress, hair colors, and races; none of them looked alike. He actually felt out of place in his plain utilitarian shorts and t-shirt. Those trees struck a chord though. Something nagged at him in the back of his mind; why did this seem familiar?
“Yes, the Rivenwood. And Shrouded is the name we give ourselves. As you can see, there are far more of us than we typically let on. We all vary in power and ability, but this place is... sacred.” Heather’s voice took his attention away from what he was seeing.
“I get that. So Marcus and Jasmine were wrong. Very wrong.” Cendan knew that Marcus would lose it if he knew about this place, not that he hadn’t already lost it.
“Yes. As I said, we call ourselves the Shrouded. We hide our numbers from you all, and from… others. Though, after what I’ve seen, I think the Bridgefinders need to be the ones who hide from us.” Her voice betrayed the slight contempt that accompanied that statement.
The truth was she may be right, Cendan told himself. Just in his current view, there were ten, fifteen, perhaps twenty people. If all of them had some ability that was already far more than the Bridgefinders had been at for over a century.
“But you all didn’t have Grellnot hunting you down,” Cendan answered by way of defense. “Does the Slyph know about you all? Grellnot? This can’t stay hidden from them, right?” His question made Heather shrug in response, though he caught a glimpse of irritation, or perhaps anger, at the question.
“The Slyph knows of us ... somewhat. But since we aren’t in her face, so to speak, trying to send her minions back, she doesn’t deal with us; not directly. As for Grellnot, he leaves us alone unless one of us gets in his way. Or at least that had been the way it had gone until the war on the Echo world broke out.” Heather beckoned Cendan to follow her as they walked towards the wood in front of them.
As they passed the other people in this place, some nodded to Heather in passing. They all seemed to totally ignore Cendan for
the most part though one man wearing black leather and what looked like tribal tattoos gave him a long hard look. Unsettled, Cendan kept his eyes on Heather from then on, feeling like one hell of an outsider.
“I guess I don’t understand. Are you helping the Slyph? Or fighting against her?” Cendan asked as they walked through the trees. “I know you all deal with the creatures there. Though I’m unclear as to the nature of those deals and what you actually get out of it.”
Heather paused and turned towards him. “Our dealings with the creatures of the Slyph are simply our way of dealing with the Echo World. We aren’t helping her, regardless of what the propaganda says. We fight against her in our own way. We just aren’t nearly as in your face about it as you all are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You didn’t answer the question, you know,” Cendan pushed back. His response, however, was met with a sigh as Heather turned back away from him.
“Just follow me. I think he will be able to answer your questions, and more besides. You have been told a version of the truth, and one that isn’t terribly complete.”
“He? Who’s he?” Cendan asked. He knew the whole reason they were here was to meet with the Elders of these people, these Shrouded. Sal would have loved this, Cendan reckoned. He hadn’t known Sal all that great when he got killed, but of the others he would have eaten this up. Jasmine would accept it with some prodding. Not fully, but she’d accept it after a while.
And Marcus? He’d deny that it existed, that it was all a trick. Cendan hoped jasmine was ok. He still didn’t like that he’d left her there with Marcus. Marcus and Jasmine had been friends a long time, he knew, but with Marcus’s current mental state, he felt uneasy about it. Highly uneasy if he thought about it. There wasn’t much he could do, however; EVA was still muffled in his head, and Marcus had kicked him out. Who knew if he’d even be able to get back in?
The surrounding trees were larger now, older. The path they walked on was still clearly marked, but unlike the trees before, these often didn’t have anyone near them. Cendan noted, however, that while the day was nice, cool, and clear, the air as they walked had a peculiar quality to it that got stronger the deeper into this Rivenwood place they went. A low hum seemed to fill the air; he could feel it on the back of his neck as-well. Strange place indeed, he thought to himself.
Heather, however, didn’t seem to notice it or mention it. Her eyes flicked from time to time to this tree or the next, each time looking down, her face set in a bland mask that seemed somewhat unlike her; at least as far as Cendan knew of her thus far. Finally, in the distance, a rather massive tree rose up out of the forest. Grand in scale, it was some variety of evergreen that Cendan wasn’t sure of. What was interesting was that at some point the tree had been struck by lightning or something of that nature. Its trunk was partially split halfway up, but it seemed the tree continued to thrive regardless of the damage.
“This is the Rivenwood. The tree that this place is named after. It is the first and eldest.” Heather pointed to the tree. “Touch the tree, Cendan, and your questions will be answered.”
Cendan paused and looked at her, his eyebrows furrowed then rising fast.
“Touch the tree… Wait…” Cendan spun looking at the surrounding trees. “These trees, all of them… they are like Oakheart!”
Heather said nothing, but lowered her head. “You won’t be harmed, Cendan. This isn’t a trap. Rivenwood can explain better than I can.”
Hesitation filled Cendan. If each of these trees were a person trapped in a tree, then these people, these ‘Shrouded’, were worse than the Slyph herself. The horror of being trapped, powerless for years, centuries even, made his stomach turn.
“How can you say that? All these people trapped forever—”
Heather cut him off with an upraised hand. “This is not a trap. Just touch the tree, and Rivenwood will explain. If you want to leave after that, fine. But at least listen to us!”
Cendan hesitated. Heather didn’t seem to be lying. In fact, her voice betrayed her somewhat shocked thought at the idea that the trees were prisons. His eyes fell onto the tree in front of him, mentally comparing it to Oakheart. Both were grand things as far as trees go. This one was taller whereas Oakheart had been wider. The bark on this tree, this Rivenwood, was smooth in a few places. He wondered if that was where people normally touched the tree, communed with it. Or whatever it is that they call it.
He half began to ask Heather, then stopped himself. Useless trivia at this point. He wondered if he should look for the Branches on this choice. Heather claimed that was magic, however, some sort of future telling magic. And working magic here and now, well, that might not be the best choice. This was an either or choice. He touches the tree and sees what it was Heather wanted him to see. Or don’t touch, and he wasn’t sure what exactly then. He’d been shown the inner workings of these people, this group, the Shrouded, whatever they meant by that.
Add to the fact that he had agreed to meet with the ‘Elders’ of her group. He had expected it to be people, though. Old wizened crones; wizards in cone hats; flowing robes, and that sort of thing. Not a forest of trees inhabited by the souls and minds of witches and the like from long ago. The advantages of the system were obvious. When someone gets too old, put them in a tree and one is able to learn from them, talk to them. The knowledge and power gets passed on for all time.
Oakheart had, however, soured him on this. He’d been tortured by being a tree for all those years, forced to work for the Slyph, and to lend his magic to the creation of horrible monsters and beings. Add to that the fact that the knowledge that Oakheart had shared via the focus was spotty and broken; was that a function of being a tree or was that a function of what the Slyph had used him for?
Heather’s sigh broke his thoughts. Her once calm face had taken on more of a cast of impatience as she stood there waiting for him to make his decision. He didn’t have much choice; he had to touch it if only for his own knowledge. Lacking any other good choice, however, Cendan reached into his pocket that held his focus, gripping it with that hand. He reached out, his fingers brushed against the bark, and the world spun away from him leaving him standing in an empty black void.
“Hello Cendan Key. I am Rivenwood. First off, before you say anything else, I have to apologize for Heather. She’s powerful, but impetuous and too enamored of what she can do without always thinking if she should do it.” The voice that spoke to Cendan was warm, gracious, and reminded Cendan of one of those good Shakespearian actors. Very proper, friendly though. It put him at ease almost instantly.
“I can see that. So you’re Rivenwood? What was your name before you became a tree? Did you do this willingly? I’ve seen this before, and that wasn’t a good thing!” Cendan wanted to get the big questions over and done with, before trying to figure out what else was going on here.
Sadness came over him like a wave. The sadness of learning of an old friend’s death; not raw, but one of melancholy.
“Oakheart. My friend once. Yes, I know of Oakheart. And my name before the tree was Rivenwood, actually. Aethlic Rivenwood. Willingly? Of course. We aren’t like the Slyph here. I wasn’t forced into this. I can tell you what you want to know or I can just show you, Cendan. Here in this place, I can show you anything and everything. I can fill in all those blank places the Bridgefinders left empty because, honestly, they didn’t know anymore.”
Cendan paused and considered this. “Why would you do that? From what I gathered from Heather, the Bridgefinders and you all aren’t exactly on the best terms. In fact, from their side of things, you are all dangerous fanatics who do horrible things with the creatures of the Slyph, and get power from that.”
A low laugh echoed in his mind with those words before Rivenwood answered.
“Yes, I imagine that they would say that sort of thing. The truth is far different. Let me show you from the beginning of it all. From the moment of the creation of the echoes to the Bridgefinders. There is much our wa
yward brethren have lost. But I will not show you without your approval and acceptance. I’ll not do what Heather did physically, but in a mental way.”
Cendan started; this tree knew about that?
“Yes, I can read your thoughts, though that machine Oakheart created, that EVA of his, makes it a bit more difficult. The connection between you, though, it is masked somehow, and that makes it easier than it should be. As for Heather, she will be punished for her actions. They were unwarranted and unwanted. Within the Shrouded those things happen, and the younger members seem to accept it for reasons I don’t understand. But you being from outside that was a horrible mistake she made.”
Rivenwood’s voice assumed the role of a teacher now. Cendan could picture this elderly professor type in his mind about to give a lecture of grave importance.
“First, you need to understand Creation, the truth of our world, the Echo worlds, where the Slyph came from, all of it. I gather the Bridgefinders don’t remember any of this, knowing how rabidly anti-magic they have become over the years.”
“Echo Worlds? As in plural? So there is more than a single Echo?” Cendan jumped at that point. It had bothered him that no one in the Bridgefinders could answer it. With all the effort in getting things working, he also hadn’t had time to really research it in the Maker Wing; not that he was going to get a chance to now.
“Yes, Plural. Let me tell you the story of creation, Cendan Key. It will explain some things and raise new ones I’m sure.”
Chapter 12
There was silence, just silence. True silence, the kind of silence that almost hurt. And in this silence, this purity of nothing, a light bloomed. The silence still reigned, but it was different now. Instead of an empty silence, it was the silence that comes before something grand, a silence not born of nothing, but one of great anticipation. And then, a sound. A sound that would bring any living thing to tears of pure joy if anything living could have heard it. A single harmonious sound, it lifted, almost caressing the fading silence, a goodbye kiss to what had been, and a joyful retort to the empty of before. A harmony of making; being; creation itself.